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There is a heavenly-smelling, oddly shaped pastry in front of him, and Wilbur pokes at it with bloodied fingers, suspicious.
“It’s not going to bite you, mate.”
There is his family all around, and all Wilbur can do is grin.
“How do you know, Phil?” Wilbur asks with a dramatic flourish. He pokes again, and his finger half-sinks into the surface, sending pins and needles up his arm. “After all that happened - gods and explosions and revolving doors - it might very well gain sentience. You don’t know. Maybe Tommy is a secret do-not, even.”
Techno snorts into his coffee. Wilbur hides a smile as Tommy punches his shoulder, mock scowling. The diner they’re in is empty except for them and a wide-eyed employee - nothing but the buzzing, artificial lights and peeling wallpaper. It was the closest one to the site of the blast, the outside of the building singed with ash and blackened with dust. The sign, however lopsided, said open though, so here they are - laughter lighting up the morning.
Wilbur looks at his family, Phil with his wings barely able to fit in the booth, Tommy and his mountain of pancakes, Techno shooing L’Rat away from his coffee with a grumble. He looks at them, bloodied, bruised but whole - and here they fucking are, indeed.
Wilbur smiles. He feels warm.
“I’m not a donut, you bitch,” Tommy tells him. “If anything, it would be you with your weird-ass backstory.”
“Dimension-travelling donut,” Techno adds wisely. L’Rat takes this opportunity to make a dive for his coffee but somehow manages only to crash directly into Phil’s face. The whole table erupts in a flurry of cursing. Someone elbowing him in his gut, Wilbur flails, knocking his donut clean off the plate. The table groans against the onslaught, and the employee casts them a weary look, before slinking into the back.
“My do-not,” Wilbur cries out. The chaos continues, and the area seems to brighten with the bickering, the noise, the pressure of knowing he belongs with this. He belongs with these people, however frayed they may be, however many mistakes they make. The paint - a garish orange - doesn’t even look like fire, for once. It looks like sunrise, like new beginnings and bright futures.
“Dimension-travelling floor donut,” Techno says, deadpan. “Your brethren were betrayed, Wilbur.”
“Oh my god, my hand’s in your fuckin’ stomach, ew-”
Techno opens his mouth. Wilbur interrupts, shaking a reprimanding finger at him. “If you add the word ‘ghost’ to that list, I’m going to blow up another goddamn country.”
The noise screeches to a halt. Everyone stops, turning slowly, slowly to look at him. Wilbur just stares at his donut. It’s too far away to reach, with him being stuck between Techno and Tommy, but maybe if he stretches his legs he can nick it with his shoe-
“I’m sorry,” Phil says, haltingly. “You did what?”
Wilbur freezes, half under the table, an arm sprawled across Techno’s shoulders. His eyes go wide, and dread creeps in, memories of that fateful, awful day rising to mind. His chest aches with phantom pain, and he doesn’t have to imagine the ash. It’s already there in his lungs, in his heart, in his soul-
“I think we need to have a fuckin’ talk about your arsonist tendencies,” Tommy says grouchily, and all at once, Wilbur can breathe again. The memories are just that - memories. Ones that cut deep, that scar, that he will carry to his grave like those of a ginger-haired boy and a family of shattered glass, but memories all the same. And he stops, and for a second, he actually looks.
Phil doesn’t seem angry. There is no apathy in his eyes, no crushing weight to his shoulders, only curiosity, and something oddly fond. Techno looks annoyed - but it’s fake, he can tell, and Tommy…
This Tommy still looks at him like he hung the stars, and for him, for Techno and Phil and L’Rat, he will try to move on. For all those he left and all those he promises he never will, Wilbur lets go, just an inch. He lets the pain dull to a pleasant sort of ache, and he smiles, ruffling his brother’s hair.
“It’s not arson if you built it yourself,” he says. “Besides, I also started a drug van, so I feel like that’s arguably worse.”
And his family’s eyes are curious even as they go with the subject change, and one day, Wilbur promises - one day. He will explain the sacrifices of boy-heroes to Tommy, will cry and hug him and say sorry to a version of his brother he will not see again. He will speak to Techno of war and of desperation, and to Phil of quiet houses and quiet hearts. He will, but not yet because he has time. He has all the time in the world now, and the thought makes him feel light.
(And one day, after years of therapy and love and stitched-up souls, he will take out a guitar again, running calloused fingers over strings he hasn’t touched in years. And underneath the scars from war and weapons, the ones that made melodies out of nothing remain, despite it all. And he will play the anthem of his people for his family, let Phil hold him - a real embrace - as he tells them of his death and his rebirth. And they will love him, still.)
They love him through it all.
“Drugs are pog,” Tommy says seriously, and Wilbur chokes out a wet-sounding laugh.
“We sold them from a hot dog van,” he tells Tommy, who nods as if that makes perfect sense. “And then we made an entire fucking nation from the hot dog van, Declaration of Independance and all.”
Tommy chokes on his pancake. Phil wacks him in the back, as he stares at Wilbur in astonishment. “Jesus, Wil, what were you on?”
“Many, many illegal substances.”
“Or basically, he’s just a theater kid,” Techno drawls. “I bet you were super dramatic about it, too-”
Wilbur sputters, shooting his brother a glare. He sinks further in his seat, his donut still just out of reach. “Out of the two of us, you were way worse,” he mutters, petulant. “You had all these dramatic monologues about trust and betrayal and ‘oh no I’m so angsty and alone.’ And the potatoes, Gods.”
Techno blinks in confusion. At the look on his face, Tommy starts choking again, this time with laughter. Phil looks concerned, but there is mirth hidden behind the furrow in his brow. And it makes Wilbur grin all the harder. L’manberg was many things - his greatest failure, his undoing, the catalyst to the end - but there was good, too. And it’s nice to think of the happy things for once, find joy in the heartache, resolution in another world, in a shitty, perfect diner.
“Potatoes are good,” Techno says, and Wilbur’s already tearing into him before he even finishes.
“Not every goddamn day,” he groans. “Every meal, baked the literal same - we asked for you to change things up, maybe a fuckin’ carrot, but nooo. It had to be potatoes. I fucking hate potatoes.”
“Potatoes are good,” Techno says again, and Wilbur bats at his arm.
“I think he’s got you there, mate,” Phil tells him, amused, and Tommy nods sagely. For a second, he marvels at them. Everything still feels slightly unreal, like the transparency of his body, the way he doesn’t breathe but feels so fucking alive. He would never have expected this, months ago. He would never have allowed himself to, so wrapped up in destiny and punishments and a past he promised wouldn’t see the light of day. He thought he didn’t deserve it.
He still isn’t sure if he does, but, Gods, he’ll never let it go again.
(Months later, Phil gives him the adoption papers, and he breaks down. Why would they want him? Why do they care? And his father reads between the tears in his eyes and tells him he is home. There is a point where you have to let yourself heal. There is a point where you have to hug your dad with no blades between you and call your brothers more than just brothers in arms.)
“You can’t talk, you cranky bitch,” he says. For now, he just leans back, feeling whole - feeling safe. “You were so old, in my universe. A literal immortal. Oldza, Oldza, Oldza-”
“I’m sorry, I was what-”
“Cranky,” Wilbur says innocently. L’Rat caws out a laugh.
“This all seems awfully fuckin’ eventful,” Tommy hums, over Phil’s stunned silence. His mouth is still stuffed with pancakes, and he’s barely made a dent in the pile.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Wilbur laughs, running a hand over his chest. There’s a slash in his coat, even now. There are still explosions ringing in his ears. And he looks at them all, looks at the dirty floors and inhales the smell of grease and coffee beans, and lets the sentence hang unfinished. Techno was right - he’s one dramatic son of a bitch. So he pulls his hands away and boops Tommy on the nose. “I married a salmon, you know.”
Silence.
Dead silence, and then Phil heaves a long, drawn-out sigh. “Of fucking course you did,” he groans. “Of fucking course.”
L’Rat squawks. Wilbur nods, contemplative. “Thank you, L’Rat, it is a very reasonable part of my tragic backstory. Besides, Phil, you were married to literal Death.”
Phil’s head hits the table with a thump. “Of fucking course I was - why am I even surprised-”
“Wil, Wil - was I married? Please tell me I was married; I bet I had many wives-”
“Only to the grind,” he tells Tommy. Tommy pouts back.
“Philza, you should give me your wife. It’s only fair.”
Wilbur leans in conspiratorially, as Techno hides a smile behind his coffee mug. “He also married a Samsung refrigerator,” he whispers, and then his words are drowned out by a cacophony of noise. L’Rat titters, flapping her wings as she takes off, and Tommy slams his fists against the table. Hitting his fork, it arches through the air before hitting Techno straight in the forehead, falling into his coffee with a plop.
They all are in the splash zone, and it leads to more accusations. L’Rat, when she swoops back down, looks incredibly smug at their disaster of a table.
“My coffee,” Techno says mournfully, flicking the liquid off his fingers.
“My fuckin’ fork,” Tommy parrots back, but Phil interrupts them before it can devolve into another fight.
I thought your world was very technologically behind,” Phil mumbles, still facedown. Tommy pats his back sympathetically, even as he picks up a pancake with his whole hand.
“It is,” Wilbur blinks. “But we had fridges. And monsters.”
“This is makin’ literally no sense.”
“Your face makes literally no sense,” he fires back to Techno, and Tommy snickers.
“Got ‘em.”
“Eat your donut and then let’s go home,” Phil says with a sigh, fond and tired and loving. He grabs the donut off the ground, casting a skeptical look at the dirty tiles, before starting to pull away. “On second thought, maybe not-”
Wilbur snatches it, shoving it in his mouth. His family watches in judgment. It tastes like dirt, like ash and blood, and of the tears that stained all their faces not even an hour ago. But it’s sweet, too. It’s warm, and it kind of makes him want to cry again. He’s never had one before. They didn’t exist in his world - none of this did - but they’re here. He’s here, and it’s kind of shit, but he fucking loves it all the same.
“Fine then, fridge-fucker,” he says through a mouthful of food. Tommy bends over laughing, and even Techno chuckles at the look on Phil’s face. The diner is kind; the future is bright, and they’ll be okay. Wilbur knows it, deep within his shattered soul. “Let’s go home,” he says, and the words are flowers in a crater, the smile that blooms across his face.
…
The news, of course, has a field day.
There are many theories about the explosion and Wilbur’s involvement. Citizens of the city go wild, debating his intent, his plans, his side - the most popular take seems to think that Wilbur will become the newest hero. Reformed, like Technoblade was, all those years ago. Changed to the side of the just and good - like how they assume Tommy to be when he joins the heroes a few months later.
However, more time passes. And there are no more sightings of Wilbur Soot, and slowly, slowly, interest fades. Life, as it does, moves on.
But there is a shop, deep in the city.
There are whispers of a place that sells yarn and lighters and messily patched clothes, run by an enigmatic figure. They say he’s see-through, like a ghost. They say that some of the top heroes in the city call him family and laughter lights up the concrete when they visit.
Some customers ask. They say that the man only grins a coy smile, strumming a guitar and draped in a yellow sweater, surrounded by his shop. “I’m not a hero,” he says, and the words are amused, plain, simple.
Some customers ask. They recognize him from the news, cast weary eyes over his scarred knuckles, the lighters he paints flowers on when he isn’t playing. And healing is slow. It takes a while, but eventually, the man only laughs and runs a hand over a coat that’s finally, finally been stitched up with a rainbow of colors and light. “I’m not a villain,” he says. “I’m just Wilbur.”
There is a shop, run by a not-hero, a not-villain, someone who’s learned to just be. He goes home to his family at the end of the night and has an animal he insists isn’t a bird perched on his shoulder. There is a shop, and there is a man who taught himself to sew and knit and create once again - at least that’s how the whispers go.
And one day, maybe that little bell rings, and a boy walks through the door. With ginger hair and lanky legs, maybe the man drops his knitting needles and stares. Wilbur Soot fades from public view, going out and burning a few buildings and beating up a few people, but living without the pressure. Wilbur Soot fades from view, but not from those that matter. And as he rings up a purchase of orange yarn, from a boy he knows more than his own heart, maybe he’s okay.
Maybe when the ginger-boy finally asks, as all customers do, he leans in. And smiles and cries and knows he belongs, as he says: “let me tell you a story.”